Ephemeral
by akakurogin
Summary: [COMPLETE] Ohtori went to France to study music. Shishido cut off all ties to avoid things. Things happen. [ShishiTori]
1. Ephemeral

studying/cramming like MAD does funny things to my plot-brain, it seems.  
  
Title: Ephemeral  
  
Part: 1 of something. There's NO WAY it's ending like this. NO WAY.  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Pairing: ShishiTori… kinda…  
  
Warning: ::starts bawling:: = enough of a warning, I think.  
  
Word Count: 1796  
  
----  
  
How many years had it been? Since he last really saw the face of the one he saw in his dreams every night. Or more likely – nightmares – nighttime visions torturing him with a time long past, never to come to light again, already lost in the forever flowing threads of time.   
  
Shishdo Ryou, history teacher at Seishun Gakuen High School department, with his short, contrastingly spiky yet silky hair the of melting milk chocolate on a warm summer day and endearing blue cap, which he always wore backwards, completely disregarding the school's no hats rule, was very popular among his female students. Many had asked him if he had a girlfriend, or even confessed to him, but he'd turned them all down. It wasn't just because of the scandal it would've caused had he dated any of his students. Even his coworkers had often asked him more about his personal life than he cared to share, and one female teacher – was she in the art department? Or maybe science. It wasn't like he cared to remember – had even gone so far as to incessantly invite him over to her house for dinner. Finally fed up, he'd asked her, "What would you say, if every time you saw even a mere you always related to the person you value more than life itself, you remembered that person, and yet you knew you will never see that person again? Would you start dating someone else, just like that?" He'd left her in stunned silence, and afterwards, no one ever spoke to him about such matters again. He was relatively grateful for that.- at least he had his peace.  
  
He blinked. There it was. That dream-nightmare again. Of the time when he'd last said "see you later" to the one he'd loved with all his heart, and of the bright, beautiful smile that one gave him in return, the smile that was burned into his memory, white hot and painful. It was the same smile he had seen almost everyday for three years, ever since they'd started playing doubles his third year of junior high. But he hadn't seen him again. Ever.  
  
During his first year of university, a call had come from the one he was always thinking about. "Shishido-san!" the voice had said excitedly into the phone. "I got into the French Academy of Fine Arts in Paris!" And that had been that. He hadn't gone back for the Hyoutei graduation ceremony that year; he was "too busy" with his internship. And he didn't go back at all to see that one packing, preparing to leave, preparing to fly out of Japan, and away from him.  
  
Shishido had known his junior was good in violin, but he'd always thought that tennis had been his top priority, and music only an interest. Apparently, he'd gotten in information mixed up. Because he had lost touch with his former partner, who had pursued music in life over tennis, over anything else. And that was when he also gave up on playing tennis, for what was the game without the right partner?  
  
Going home to an empty apartment was always painful. It reminded him of college, when he'd go back to his empty single. He'd never bothered to get a double after being informed that the one who'd promised to room with him when they were both in college broke that promise. Odd – it was the first promise the other had broken to him, although Shishido himself had broken many promises in his time, and yet, it was the one promise that affected his entire life. Every time he opened the door to a dark, cold, lifeless room, he was reminded of the brightness and life that had been in his world. The contrast of his dreams with his reality was too real, too evident, in just that alone.  
  
One time, his sophomore year of college, fresh from the hurt of the other's departure, Hiyoshi had come to find him in his dorm room. The boy without a sense of fashion for his hair had confessed that he was hurting from the future musician's abandonment also. "He was my best friend." That simple statement put the two of them eye to eye, even though they'd never been particularly close before. Hiyoshi had always been bitter that Shishido took back his spot on the Regulars that year and played doubles with the one who was supposed to be ihis/i best friend, and Shishido had never quite learned to care for the one who was always aiming for his spot.  
  
But when it came to a certain silver-haired boy with fluid brown eyes the of coffee when you're still stirring in the milk and a soul too nice for the man eat man world of Hyoutei Gakuen, even these two could find a common ground in the love they both felt for him. Different as the of their love may have been, in the end it all came down to the one with silver hair. That night, they had cried in each other's arms, for the one that was lost to them.  
  
Hiyoshi had been smarter than him, Shishido thought. He'd actually kept in touch with his best friend, it seemed. He had only been suffering from the loneliness of not having the boy around, physically, to attend and study with. They still chatted online, sent letters, kept tabs on each other's lives, everything. And they still hung out when the other came back for vacation. Shishido himself had been different. He had been too hurt and proud from the broken promise to have wished the boy luck in his studies, and even to keep in touch. And he refused to ask Hiyoshi anything.  
  
Eventually though, Hiyoshi had been able to move on. That first year of college had been tough on him, but eventually he made new friends and his secondary school best friend was demoted to just a friend, someone to keep in touch with, but not someone to keep on his mind all the time. Shishido hadn't. One can have many best friends in a lifetime – change is inevitable, and you just go with the flow, right? But that's based on how one changes as a person, also. Love… love doesn't change. You meet the one to whom your soul is bound to, and that's the end of the story. There are no changes to the soul; it is not half as capricious as a personality. When your soul finds its match, the story ends. It never wants to be separated again. But that is all in the metaphysical. In the physical, separation is still very real. And Shishido was feeling that separation, the pain filling up his body and spilling over into his soul. Because body and spirit are irrevocably connected, whether one liked it or not.   
  
Damnit. Why had he been so stubborn? If only he'd confessed his feelings… at least he would have had an answer. The definitiveness at least would've given him some closure, right? He wouldn't be hanging in this stagnant state, unable to move on and yet unable to ido/i anything. Or at the very least, if he'd admitted his feelings to himself back then, instead of denying it, he could've kept in touch with the boy, and at least have kept the friendship, if nothing else. But he'd been a bastard, straight up, and denied it all the while. It had taken until he actually tried dating someone else, and found that he simply couldn't even see the woman in front of him or hear her voice talking to him, that he finally admitted to himself that he missed the taller man.  
  
And yet he'd still been stubborn, and hadn't asked Hiyoshi for contact information. He didn't visit anyone during breaks, either. If he'd just gone to one of the reunions Jirou had invited him to, perhaps he would've seen him, but he hadn't. He completely separated himself from those he'd known since elementary school. Fittingly, his connections with them weakened and died as they graduated college and moved into the real world, entering yet another stage of their individual lives.  
  
Looking out his windows at the starless night of the too-brightly lit Tokyo, he wondered if perhaps it was too late to try finding the now grown man. Yes, it must be. After so many years, the other must have a wife and family now. Whether or not he, Shishido, was still remembered was the only question remaining. Because although his psyche called out for its support, there was no guarantee the other felt for him in the same manner. Life just wasn't that fair.   
  
The blue cap still rested on his nightstand, as it had every night since that summer day his third year of junior high, when he'd made history by returning to the Hyoutei Tennis Club Regulars, and his junior had dragged his to get his self-cut hair evened out. His friend and then partner-to-be had all but confessed that it still looked horrible, and had then dragged him shopping for a hat. That enthusiasm for life – that ability to always be cheerful in any circumstance – that was what he missed most in his present life.  
  
Turning over in his bed – away from the Tokyo night scene and that cap – he faced the wall that was as blank as his life now, without the other. The cap. Well, the cap served as a self-punishing reminder of what he'd lost, and, along with a team picture, as the only memento of the one he loved with all of himself. And the lights outside reminded him of the brightness of life ignorant of the tearing pain that made one want to rip out their own heart to stop it from hurting, of life gifted with a happiness as bright as the sun, brighter than the most powerful manmade light bulb, because it was above anything mortal.  
  
He'd known he hadn't deserved the happiness the other boy brought him. He wasn't nearly as nice enough, nearly as gentle enough, as the other deserved. Especially not with his cruel streak – the one that had him forcing the soft-hearted boy, gentle as a puppy, to send ridiculously fast and powerful serves across the court and at himself. Maybe this was the answer to his "why me" questions back then. He had been too lucky in finding the boy. He hadn't deserved him at all. Life was just teasing him, dangling perfection in his face, and then snatching it away. Because didn't it always hurt more to lose what you knew existed, what you only had for the most ephemeral of moments, than to never have seen perfection at all?  
  
----  
  
blue cap. Reference to Contrasting Combination (posted in my LJ). Which is a MUCH lighter read.  
  
And very sorry for the horrific English! When I study math and code all weekend, my English becomes unintelligible like this. . Plus I never write with good English anyway when I'm angsting my characters. Not sure of the effect it produces... comments?  
  
=[ Now you see why I say I don't like writing for my OTP? Even fluff produces sad bunnies in my mind!   
  
::runs off to :: 


	2. Eternal

Title: Eternal  
  
Part: 2/2  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Pairing: ShishiTori  
  
Summary: Boo! Said it wasn't gonna end that way. I still don't like how it ended, but eh. Couldn't even sleep until I finished this. =P  
  
Disclaimer: See, I write WEIRD things. The real Prince of Tennis is not this weird. Therefore, I couldn't POSSIBLY own it.  
  
Word Count: 2825  
  
----  
  
Everyday was the same. It was hard to keep track of time. It wasn't like he really had a dream or anything to live for. His students changed every year, the only continuity in their discontinuity. Everything was ephemeral… was there really a point to life like this? Just going with the flow, letting time move on, but not really moving in any way himself?  
  
It was odd that he was teaching at Seishun Gakuen, really. But they had needed a history teacher, and Hyoutei hadn't. It wasn't like he was coaching tennis or anything anyway, though he did often pass by the courts and stop to take a look at that year's Seigaku regulars. He'd never seen another team like the one that defeated him his third year of junior high, even in the high school division, but then again, that year, the junior high tennis players around Japan had all been amazing; it was said that there would probably never be another year quite like it.  
  
Today though, something interesting caught his ear as he watched two third years play against each other. A group of girls, most likely fans of the regulars, were squealing annoyingly next to him, reminding him of when he had played and the girls of Hyoutei had done the same thing. But this time, they actually said something useful.  
  
"Really? Coming back from France? Oh how romantic! I wonder if he speaks French…" the first voice sighed.  
  
"You idiot, he's been in France for the past seven years! Of course he speaks French!" a more grating voice like his own this time, but annoying nonetheless.  
  
"And he's originally from Tokyo, too! They say he went to Hyoutei before going to France to study music," squealed a third, definitely with the highest and most annoying voice of all. But regardless of how annoying her voice was, her words were the ones that truly caught Shishido's attention.  
  
"I wonder if he's married," the second voice spoke again.  
  
"I heard he's still single."  
  
By this time, Shishido couldn't really tell the ridiculously high adolescent female voices apart anymore. But he did know that they were definitely talking about his musician from France. Foregoing all common sense, he blurted out, "Excuse me, girls." They turned to look at him. "May I ask whom you're speaking of?"  
  
"Oh, Shishido-sensei!" one of them spoke up. Doing a double take at her knowing his name, he took a closer look, and realized she looked mildly familiar. Possibly one of his students. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice you were standing there. We're talking about Ootori Choutarou."  
  
"Sensei, you went to Hyoutei Gakuen, didn't you? Did you know him?"  
  
Surprised that the girl knew which school he had attended, his head whipped around to stare at the second speaker. Huh… she looked familiar too… "How did you know I went to Hyoutei?"  
  
The three girls giggled. "You told us on the first day of class, sensei!" she responded.  
  
Girls, he decided, would always be weird. No matter the generation, the time, age, they'd always be weird. How did they remember stuff like that? "No, I didn't know him," he finally responded. Turning around, he walked away, head spinning. Choutarou was… was coming back? For what? Did that mean that he was in France this whole time? Even after finishing the academy, did he stay in France? And coming back… for what? Why now, after so long? Slowly, his mind processed the last words the girls had said before he'd interrupted them. I heard he's still single.  
  
Still single…  
  
OK he was officially the world's biggest dunce. Why hadn't he asked the girls what Choutarou was doing back in Japan? It'd be strange turning back to ask that now. He'd just have to do a little info gathering on his own. Returning to his cubicle in the teacher's lounge, he packed his stuff hurriedly and practically raced to the train station. Like a little child, he fervently wished he had psychic powers to make the train go faster. Once home, he immediately turned on his computer and logged online. Looking up "Ootori Choutarou" returned more results than he could've sifted through in a week. Even narrowing the search to include "Japan" in the keywords didn't do much good. Wait… there was an official Ootori Choutarou website? Since when had his former partner gotten so popular?  
  
Clicking on the link impatiently, Shishido was shocked to find an upper body shot of a gorgeous man with refusing-to-be-tamed wavy hair, eyes closed as fingers of one hand delicately held the wooden bow of a violin, and the other the violin itself. The gentle curve of those graceful hands were just like what he'd remembered them to be, from all those times they'd brushed fingers when handing the other a towel or a water bottle or something. He was in a tuxedo – presumably the picture was from a concert – and while Shishido admitted it did look good on his still-muscular frame, it didn't suit him quite as well as a polo shirt, shorts and a tennis racket.  
  
It looked like this site did have some interesting information, Shishido decided. He found a page dedicated to pictures of the silver-haired professional violinist that had taken the world's classical enthusiasts by storm, and basked in the sheer beauty of the one he loved. There were some with his eyes closed, many with them open, and Shishido knew that the computer did not do justice to the mournful innocence in those chocolaty-caramel brown eyes. But that wasn't what he'd set out to find. He could stare at the pictures later; right now he was trying to figure out why and when Choutarou was returning to Japan.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Shishido's patience was running out on him. It just wasn't there! He'd stumbled across the man's biography, more pictures, fan letters, midis of his playing… everything except when he was returning to Japan! One page had intrigued him – it displayed Choutarou's dedications of thanks to his family, his teachers, and "someone very important to me. I'll wait for you forever." But didn't the girls say he was single? That wasn't the most important issue right now though.  
  
Right before giving up on that site in favor of trying another one, he saw one link that hadn't turned grey in place of the black, indicating it hadn't been visited yet. It said "Concerts". Of course! He would've smacked his head if he hadn't been too busy clicking on the link and waiting for the page to load.. Choutarou must be returning to Japan for a concert! And sure enough, there it was. In a mere two months, Ootori Choutarou would be returning to Japan to guest play at the Tokyo Symphony Hall.  
  
Tokyo Symphony Hall… he knew where that was. Choutaru had taken him there once to listen to some guy from some European country guest play on some instrument. There was a little button that said "buy tickets now!" It sure as heck wasn't cheap listening to Choutarou play, he decided, after he'd submitted the form and received his e-confirmation for a seat on the second balcony. He wouldn't have a good view, but it didn't matter. Choutarou would be there – that was all that mattered.  
  
--  
  
He managed to find a blue suit dark enough for the symphony hall for that night. If his memory served him correctly, one was supposed to be dressed formally for such concerts. He tugged on the already too tight tie around his throat, in which apparently his heart had decided it would spend the evening. His cap couldn't go with him, so hopefully the blue suit would please Choutarou just as much for their first meeting in… was it eight years? It had definitely been several years since his high school graduation.  
  
Slipping into the dimmed theater proved trouble free for him. But from his seat, the stage appeared about the size of his dinner table. Too bad he forgot his binoculars… why was he always so absent-minded like that? Especially when it came to that one… The lights in the audience dimmed just then, indicating that Shishido had barely made it in time for the beginning of the concert.  
  
The symphony started the first piece on the program. It was pretty fast paced, which wasn't too great for the brown-haired tone-deaf high school history teacher sitting in the fourth row of the upper balcony. His heart was already beating fast enough; he didn't particularly need the music to be fast and blood speeding also. But it didn't matter, because according to the program he'd hastily picked up as he had rushed into the theatre, his Choutarou was to come on for a solo immediately after the introduction piece.  
  
And just like that, the symphony struck their final chord for that piece, and a loud applause began for the tall, muscular youth carrying his violin, bow and a microphone? Hands throughout the room stilled as they realized the one they'd been so expecting wasn't wearing the traditional black tuxedo, or any semblance of formal wear. No… the famed violinist was wearing a white and gray-blue striped polo shirt, with black wind pants?  
  
Shishido gasped as he realized why the rest of the audience was so shocked silent. Squinting, he saw that Choutarou was wearing his Hyoutei Gakuen Tennis Club jersey. The one he'd worn when they'd played together. His Choutarou lifted the microphone to his lips in a fluid gesture befitting of him as a musician when he got to the conductor stand. "Nine years ago today, I took the one who means the most to me in the world here for the special performance in Japan by a Japanese cellist who had studied abroad in Germany. Today, I return to you as a Japanese violinist who has studied abroad in France. Nine years ago today, I told that one that this was my dream, and that person told me I could do whatever I wanted. Today, I wear this jersey as a symbol of the faith that one has always held in me. Shishido-san, wherever you are, this is for you. Thank you."  
  
If Shishido froze in his seat upon hearing Choutarou's voice again, he nearly melted when he heard his Choutarou say "Shishido-san" again, in that sweet, always innocent, always pure voice that even his musically challenged ears could denote as the sweetest melody he'd ever heard. Had it been this exact date? He couldn't remember; he had never thought it was something important enough to remember, but it had definitely been nine years ago this month. As for what Choutarou had told him, and what he'd said in return, well, he knew they'd talked, but he hadn't really been paying any attention to the conversation. Like the bastard he had been, he'd just been thinking about the latest issue of Jump that he'd gotten and had to leave for later when Choutarou had excitedly called him to meet up.  
  
But if he really had said that to Choutarou, well then, he had been the one in the wrong for not keeping in touch with Choutarou all those years? Choutarou really hadn't broken a promise to him? Goddamn he was a bastard…  
  
Then the sound of Choutarou's violin flowed into his mind. If this kept up, he really would die of shock before the night was over. Squinting in the dark at his program, he read the title of Choutarou's solo – it had been the piece he'd played at Shishido's eighteenth birthday party. Though he couldn't remember it too well, and the sound seemed to have changed a bit from what little he did remember, it was definitely the piece that Choutarou said he'd written just for him. The melody flowed through his ears and into his body, traveled through every nerve of him like oxygen through blood, and entered his soul, soothing, comforting. It was like Choutarou was sending his soul out to Shishido through the vibrations of his bow across the violin hairs. And just like that, across the large space still separating the two bodies, a message was sent from one soul to another.  
  
Shishido smiled. The audience applauded wildly for the young violinist that had thoroughly disregarded custom in favor of emotion, but wasn't that was music was supposed to be anyway? The echoes of the musician's heart and soul, vibrating throughout eternity…  
  
--  
  
Shishido slipped out of his seat before the end of the concert. He didn't want to get caught in the mob of people leaving, and he still had to find someway of getting through the security to Choutarou. Making his way to the main lobby, he had a realization. If it was Choutarou, then they should, right? He would. Even if he held no hope that Shishido would think in the same manner, Choutarou would still go. Because he was Choutarou, and Choutarou was like that.  
  
Shishido first went home to change. He got out the folded jersey and shorts that he had worn through arrogance, shame, determination, and pride. Slipping the blue cap firmly onto his head, he reached for the tennis racket that had sat in his closet unused for years. Then he took the train and returned to the familiar grounds on which he had spent several hours everyday for three years of his life, which he hadn't seen in the years since. He flipped the familiar switch to the floodlights, sat down in the middle court, and waited. He'd wait all night if it came down to that. He wouldn't miss even the slightest possibility of Choutarou coming.  
  
But he shouldn't have doubted the other even that little. A sound alerted him to another's presence from the opposite side of the court. Shishido stood up and tightened his grip around his racket handle. Ootori Choutarou had remained very much the boy he had always been, Shishido noted. He was still taller than Shishido by a little over a head, and his jersey still showed hints of well-toned upper arm muscles, the muscles that had once hit serves clocked as the fastest ball of the Kantou tournament. There had clearly been attempts at taming his hair, but the silver gray waves refused to be straightened into the classic gelled look. And the liquid brown eyes… the color was the same, and the surprised widening of them was the same. But something had changed… the harshness of the tennis court floodlights showed that the light of innocence was no longer there. Instead, deep in the recesses of what man called the window to the soul, Shishido could see pain. Pain, loneliness, hurt, betrayal, and something else, all of which he was sure was reflected in his own.  
  
He readied himself, as the other tossed up the ball in his hand. "Choutarou. I heard your little speech today," he said. The still tan skin of Choutarou's face, clearly indicating he was still playing outdoor sports, deepened in an involuntary blush, even though the man didn't make any physical acknowledgement. It didn't detract from the speed and accuracy of the serve in the least.  
  
"You came?"  
  
Shishido returned the serve that had not lost a bit of power from the ones that had once caused him to bleed, and gained him back his position on the Regulars. He only grunted in reply. Silence fell over them, as they rallied back at forth. He gathered his strength as Choutarou prepared to serve again.  
  
"I missed you."  
  
Shishido almost forgot to hit the ball, and would have, but for the reflexes that had become almost innate in him. The sound of their two voices – his a rough admission of one uneasy with such words, and the other's a hopeful, beautifully pained sound – echoed in his ear, completely muffling the smooth bounce of the ball as it hit his racket's sweet spot. Two serves later, he tried again.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Still as in tune as the day they called Seigaku's naming capabilities lame all those years ago, their voices reverberated through Shishido's mind, mingling into one. I love you. I always have. I always will.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Shishido winced at the implied questions behind that simple word. Why didn't you call me back? Why didn't you come to my graduation? Why didn't you come to see me off? Why didn't you come to the reunions… why did you pull away…  
  
There was that sound again… the ball hitting the racket's sweet spot. A sound he hadn't heard in a long time. "Does it matter anymore?"  
  
"I guess not."  
  
And the ball was back in his court, but instead of hitting it, Shishido reached out a hand and caught the fuzzy sphere. They turned off the lights and made sure to firmly pull close the gate behind them as they left the courts. They left Hyoutei again, but this time, their paths didn't part.  
  
----  
  
comments, critiques, errors, etc. welcomed  
  
End note? I've been reading FAR too much shoujo manga. o.0 I don't think I've ever written such weird sap in my LIFE before, not even when I was writing fanfiction for shoujo! ::wonders if this was even mildly IC.::  
  
Bleh. I've been told I can't write conclusions. Not even for my essays. Looks like I really can't… 


End file.
